Epic.

Just when you think this joke has run its course…

For eight very long minutes Jon Stewart spoofs Glenn Beck. Good luck slogging through the last half. As my mind wandered near the end two questions suddenly came to me: Why won’t Michelle Pfeiffer take my calls and other than Keith Olbermann, who’s more spoof-able nowadays than Jon Stewart? Consider how much comedy gold there is to grab hold of:

1. He’s desperately in love with himself.

2. His audience will laugh at anything (as this overlong skit proves).

3. Whenever the show’s energy starts to die, Stewart reliably resorts to Plan B: Much VOLUME followed by Funny Face.

4. He’s a coward who hides his Leftist in-the-tankness behind that tired ”I’m just a clown” schtick. Hell, even Olbermann has the guts to step in the arena and take a hit. As does Glenn Beck, for that matter.

5. When he does do a serious interview and the guest gets the better of him, Stewart goes for the cheap joke to win the audience back.

Jon Stewart is a Palace Guard not a satirist.

In my book, that makes him fair game.

Understanding that the DailyKos crowd can never be quieted (save for my untimely demise in a speeding vehicle), I do think it important to set forth what we did with the two parody songs I wrote to be sung in style of Don Henley’s works. 

 
I penned “After the Hope of November is Gone” based on Mr. Henley’s “The Boys of Summer” with parodic eye.  One can clearly see my intended skewering of Henley and his ilk’s well known liberalism in the lines: 

We never will forget those nights
We wonder if it was a dream
Remember how you made us crazy?
Remember how we made you beam
Now we do understand what happened to our love. 

That Henley has contributed some $750,000 to Democrats and liberal causes over the years, including $10,000 to Barack Obama and $9,000 to Sen. Barbara Boxer, adds authenticity to the political nature of my ditties.  As the L.A. Daily News reported Friday night, “Henley, a longtime vocal supporter of Democratic causes, has drawn boos from fans in Orange County over the years for making political comments between songs during concerts.”  Indeed.  Henley’s lawsuit shows he’s good at dishing it out, but not so good at taking it.  

Henley’s lawsuit also makes mention of my parody version of “All she wants to do is dance.” This song came out in 1984.  It was written as an attack on President Reagan’s Central American policy, a policy I was soon after to help implement as a Reagan appointee in the Pentagon.  I particularly enjoyed taking Henley’s critique of cluelessness in the face of President Reagan’s policies and turning it into a critique of the left and their global warming policies, thus parodying Henley’s penchant for leftwing activism while at the same time fashioning an insightful ditty on Sen. Barbara Boxer, my 2010 opponent.  

Lastly, I note with interest that the D.C.-based bi-partisan musical group “Capitol Steps” has been building on others’ work by turning familiar songs into biting political commentary since 1981.  They have yet to pay royalties to any artist and, as their songs are political, unlike, for instance, “Weird Al” Yankovic, they rarely secure permission from the artists whose works they build upon. 

Bottom line, we are responding to the Henley/Campbell lawsuit and expect to prevail.  If an elected official running for the U.S. Senate is not allowed to fearlessly engage in parody, then the First Amendment means little.

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ROLL TITLES

“It Could Happen Here!”

A PRESENTATION OF THE DEPARTMENT OF HOMELAND SECURITY

JANET NAPOLITANO, DIRECTOR

IN CONJUNCTION WITH THE U.S. DEPARTMENT OF EDUCATION
THE U.S. DEPARTMENT OF JUSTICE
AND THE HOUSE ANTI-TAX ACTIVITIES COMMITTEE

AN IOWAHAWK EDUCATIONAL FILMS PRODUCTION

SCROLL

march music

The story you are about to see is true. Or, at least, could be true. At this very moment dangerous subversive extremist elements are infiltrating our communities and schools, bent on destroying our American Way of Life. These are the shadowy forces of International Constitutionalism. Agents from the Department of Homeland Security are on the trail of these nefarious Red State saboteurs, but it will take a vigilant public – including ordinary high school students like you – to help bring them to justice before it’s too late. Only with your help can we preserve the American Way!

– Janet A. Napolitano

NARRATOR

This is Pinewood Lane, in Anytown, USA. A street probably a lot like yours. Happy citizens enjoying the bounty of living in this great land of ours. At 1102 we find the Baxters — Mom and Pop, teen twins Bobby and Debbie, little Susie and Grandpa. A typical family who knows what it means to be an American. Why, here comes Gus the Mailman! I wonder what he’s got in his mailbag for the Baxters?

How about that — it’s a mortgage bailout for Pop, an NEA grant for Mom’s transgressive performance art collective, and guaranteed student loan applications for the twins. They’re off to State U next fall to study Lacanian Semiotics, you know. And for Gramps, a letter from Medicare — they’ve finally approved that gender reassignment surgery he’s always wanted.

Yes sir, that’s a mighty fine benefits package the Baxters harvested today, all courtesy of the United States of America in Washington DC. Hey, wait Gus! Before you head off to your next stop, Pop has something for you, too. It’s his annual tax contribution ready for delivery. Patriotic Pop is mailing it early this year because he knows the wise folks in Washington will put that money to work for all of us through the collective magic of economic stimulus. No wonder Pop sealed it with a kiss!

That’s the beauty of our American Free Prize System – regular folks bundling our money together for our leaders, who return it a thousandfold in free prizes for all. How does it work? All we really need to know is that it’s the best system in the world. A lot of us take it for granted – but there are some who want to take it away.

hoodlum peers behind a tree at the Baxters; sneers, combs greasy mop with a switchblade comb

HORNS

bomp bomp BAAAAAAAAH!

fade out

NARRATOR

It’s first period American History at Anytown Chomsky High. Hey, it looks like there’s a new face in class — could it be the mysterious young stranger from Pinewood Lane?

MS. ANDERSON

All right, students, calm down. We have a new boy joining in class. John? John Smith, stand up and say hello to your new classmates.

JOHNNY

Hey Toots, I go by “Johnny,” see?

class laughs, Bobby and Debbie Baxter exchange concerned looks

MS. ANDERSON

That will be quite enough, students! And I suggest you watch that sassy mouth of yours, Mr. Smith. Now everyone open your textbook to page 23, “Iraq: America’s Imperialist Hegemony Chickens Come Home to Roost.”

NARRATOR

Bobby and Debbie notice that there’s something just quite not right about Johnny. The air of contempt. The pasty complexion. The way he slouches and fidgets in his desk when when the teacher explains America’s legacy of genocidal racism.

MS. ANDERSON

Now who can tell me how capitalist phallocracy gave rise to Military-Industrial Complex? Mr. Smith?

Johnny snaps his fingers rhythmically, unaware he is being called on

Mr. Smith… is that a transistor radio earphone?

JOHNNY

Oh yeah… hey, teach, like, it’s cool, I’m listening to NPR. Terri Gross is talking about gay marriage chapels in Vermont.

Ms. Anderson walks over and grabs the radio out of his motorcycle jacket

MS. ANDERSON

Just as I thought… AM talk radio! Young man, report to re-education hall this minute for fairness cleansing!

Johnny swaggers out of the class, combing his hair; Bobby and Debbie Baxter exchange concerned looks; fade out

NARRATOR

During lunchtime in the school cafeteria, Bobby and Debbie see the new student Johnny sitting alone. They want to be friendly, and have been trained to be on the alert for potential Columbine-style loners and outcasts. So they decide to strike up a conversation with him — but they’re in for a big surprise.

BOBBY

Mind if we sit down?

JOHNNY

Go ahead, it’s a free country.

BOBBY

Haha, good one! You’re quite the cut-up, Johnny. By the way, I’m Bobby Baxter. I’m a senior and president of the Future Tax Collectors of America.

JOHNNY

Reet poteet, Daddy-o. Hubba hubba, who’s the tomato?

Johnny ogles Debbie hungrily

DEBBIE

I’m Debbie Baxter, Bobby’s twin sister. I’m varsity captain of the Eco Spirit-ettes. Go Polar Bears! Where did you say you came from, Johnny?

JOHNNY

Tex… heh, I mean, San Francisco. Yeah, that’s it – San Francisco.

BOBBY

Look, Johnny… we saw what happened in History this morning. Maybe you got off to a rough start, but you’ve still got a chance to fit in. Why don’t you join one of the after-school clubs? There’s the Diversity Club, the Peace-a-longs, The Diversitarians, Feces Art Society, The Multidiversies…

DEBBIE

…don’t forget the Multiculturalettes!

BOBBY 

And how, sis! What do you say, Johnny? It’ll be swell! And all our clubs have full federal funding. If you wash that greasy kid stuff out of your hair, I think you might even be FTCA material!

JOHNNY

No dice, Daddy-o! Taxes are for squares.

Bobby and Debbie look at each other quizzically

DEBBIE AND BOBBY 

“Squares”?

JOHNNY

Yeah – L-7s. Cubes. Melvins. Nosebleeds.

DEBBIE

Bobby… I think he means he doesn’t like them!

BOBBY 

Johnny! Keep it down! Do you want the Hate Speech monitors to hear you? That kind of language could be interpreted by as illegally offensive! They could send you off to Juvie for that!

JOHNNY

Ha! There ain’t no such thing as illegal speech.

BOBBY

What!? Says who?

JOHNNY

Sez dis.

Johnny whips out a laminated card from his dungaree pocket, close up of the Constitution

HORNS

bomp bomp BAAAAAAAAH!

NARRATOR

And so it begins. What Debbie and Bobby don’t know is that “John Smith” is actually Johnny “Snake” Republico, secret agitator for the forces of International Constitutionalism — the insidious extreme rightwing ideology that seeks to bring America to its knees by enslaving our helpless unsuspecting government, and stop it from giving you all the things that you want. It spreads like a cancer, slowly driving victims into violent, racist, anti-tax madness. It takes a strong will to resist the Consties’ hypnotic sales pitch — are Debbie and Bobby up to it? 

DEBBIE

“In Congrefs”… what is this thing?

JOHNNY

Get hip to the glissando, kitten! Feast you baby blues on the Constitutionalist Manifesto. Dig this… I got the right to say what I want, pray how I want, assemble with anybody I want, nice and peaceable-like. It’s all right there in Amendment numero uno!

BOBBY 

Whoa, hold on there. Ms. Anderson says that kinda stuff is only for the Guantanamo prisoners!

JOHNNY

Just read it, Daddy-o. It’ll flip your lid and make you blast off to crazyville!

fade out; fade into split screen of Bobby and Debbie in their respective beds, reading the Constitutionalist Manifesto with flashlights

NARRATOR

Against their better judgment, and the warnings of their teachers, Bobby and Debbie Baxter decide to experiment with Constitutionalism. ‘Just a little before bed, to help me relax,’ they say. Soon their curiosity grows stronger. Mom and Pop start noticing changes.

MOM

Lights out, Debbie! Remember you have that big Patriarchy midterm tomorrow.

DEBBIE

Yes Mother. Oh, and and Mother… can I borrow Grampa’s makeup tomorrow? Johnny is taking me to the Spring Mandatory Sensitivity Grievance Hop tomorrow night.

MOM

Johnny Smith? That strange greasy rude boy your brother has been hanging around lately? Oh, Debbie, I’m just not sure…

DEBBIE

Please mother? Shulamith Firestone is leading one of the workshops. I think putting on a little makeup  will help raise Johnny’s conscious about lookism. Aren’t we supposed to mobilize the lumpenproles?

MOM

Well… alright. I don’t suppose Grandpa will mind if you borrow a little of his rouge and mascara. But stay out of his gown closet, young lady! G’night.

In the living room

MOM

George, I’m worried about the kids. Ever since they started hanging around that Smith boy, they’ve been acting strangely. Do you think we ought to report it to the authorities?

Pop looks up from his copy of In These Times

POP

Now that you mention it, Bobby has been out-of-sorts lately. I got a note from the school mental health nurse the other day, said Bobby got all het up about “quartering soldiers,” or some nonsense. Kids today, I guess. I wouldn’t get worked up though, I guess it’s probably just one of those teenage phases.

MOM

I suppose so. Honestly, sometimes I wish I had aborted them when I had the chance.

NARRATOR

Instead of trusting their own instincts, Mom and Pop let the incidents pass, neglecting their duty to alert trained federal security authorities in the deluded hope that the problem would go away on its own. Every time Bobby and Debbie met Johnny after school “at the malt shop” things turned worse — much worse. Debbie dropped out of Multiculturalettes and the Eco-Peps. Bobby’s grades in Community Journalism and Queer Theory plummeted. Then one night Johnny dropped by the Baxters’ to pick up the twins for some sort of “party”…

POP

Hi there, you must be Johnny. Say, that’s quite an automobile you got out there. What is it?

JOHNNY

It’s a ‘49 Merc. I mean… Prius.

POP

It sure is big. Are you sure it meets mandatory federal safety and fuel standards?

JOHNNY

Uh, sure, Daddy-o. It’s like, uh, solar-powered.

POP

Well, I’ll be! Sure makes a lot of noise for a solar. I couldn’t help but notice you don’t have a single bumper sticker on it.

JOHNNY

Oh, yeah. well, ya see, um, I just put on a new paint job. Lacq… I mean, sure, some kinda super ecology saver paint. All copacetic with Big Mama Planet, and like that.  

POP

Phew! That’s a relief. For a minute there I thought you might be one of those no-bumpersticker extremists. I don’t want you young folks to get pulled over on suspicion of anything. Here, take one of my Nader 04’s. Say, is that snake tattoo on your arm? “Don’t Tread On Me”… what does that mean?

JOHNNY

What is this, Daddy-o — some kind of interrogation? I”m pleading the 5th!

BOBBY

Reet poteet, Jackson! Slip me some skin!

Bobby and Johnny go through elaborate handshake

Hurry up, sis, It’s time to agitate the gravel!

POP

Robert Baxter! Since when did you start talking like that? And why are you wearing a tricorn hat?

BOBBY

Unlax, Daddy-o! I know my rights!

DEBBIE

Hey, Tiger.

Debbie is at the top of the staircase, chewing gum in capri pants and tight American flag sweater. Johnny lets out a long wolf whistle.

MOM

Deborah! For Gaia’s sake, stop objectifying yourself! Just what kind of party is this?

JOHNNY

The wildest, baby. The wildest!

DEBBIE AND BOBBY

Ha ha ha!

Debbie, Bobby and Johnny race out to Johnny’s Merc and peel out

POP

Lucille… what is this thing that dropped out of Johnny’s coat?

HORNS

bomp bomp BAAAAAAAAH!

MOM

Great Earth Mother… it’s a teabag! Look away, George!

Pop shrieks, begins sobbing uncontrollably on Mom’s shoulder; fade out

NARRATOR

After an emergency call to the Department of Homeland Security, two of the bureau’s top agents arrive on the scene to help the Baxters stop the madness from ending in tragedy.

AGENT JONES

It’s a good thing you called us when you did, Ms. Baxter. We ran the description you gave us through the DHS Univac, and we positively ID’d the suspect as Johnny “Snake” Republico, notorious ant-tax rebel.

GRANDPA

Can I offer you officers some free trade espresso? It’s fresh!

AGENT JONES

No thank you ma’am. Gee, that’s a pretty dress you have on there.

GRANDPA (flustered)

oh you sweet thing!

AGENT JONES

As I was saying, we’ve had Republico on our watch list for some time. He’s no teenager — he’s a babyfaced adult and a card-carrying Constie. In fact, he spent a 3-year stretch in the Marines.

POP

Marines!?

shreiks, sobs 

AGENT OLSEN

I’m sorry you had to hear that sir, but I’m afraid your children are in great danger. Republico matches every profile we have for a dangerous sleeper terrorist – pallid complexion, male, military veteran, weirdly unenthusiastic about paying taxes. It all adds up to one simmering, boiling cauldron of racist, misogynist, anti-government, anti-tax terrorism waiting to explode. In fact, we believe he may even have a gun.

POP

gun!?

shreiks, sobs

AGENT OLSEN

Yes sir. Owning guns is part of the Consties’ sick and perverted Manifesto. In fact, the Marines make their recruits swear an oath to it. If I were a betting man I’d say Republico has kidnapped your children and taken them to some sort of illegal Tea Party gathering where they’re about to be brainwashed — without the proper Department of Education permits!

MOM

Are you sure?

AGENT JONES

Ma’am, Agent Olsen is the top expert analyst on the DHS rightwing monitoring task force. Olsen, show her your Georgetown PoliSci diploma.

MOM

I’m sorry, I didn’t know. What gets in these people’s heads — don’t they know that our very lives depend on government? Our mortgages, our jobs, our food, Garrison Keillor – without taxes, how do these Consties think we can pay dedicated public servants like you?

AGENT JONES

It’s a mystery Ma’am.

Gus the kindly mailman bursts through the door

GUS THE MAILMAN

Agents! Come quick! there’s some sort of ruckus down at the docks!

agents put on fedoras and bolt to the door; fade out

NARRATOR

Meanwhile, at the docks, Bobby and Debbie Baxter are going through Stage 2 of the Consties’ evil indoctrination program — a so-called “Tea Party” led by Constie propagandist saboteur and rightwing hate DJ Smash Taxbill.

SMASH

Welcome hepcat daddy-os and teen comrades! The hour of our ascendancy is here! Tonight we will poison the entire waterfront with our teabags, and bring the entire government of Anytown to a halt — and without filling out an environmental impact statement! Minorities and women will be hardest hit! Bwahahaha! Today Anytown, tomorrow Berkeley! Now, look closely into the spinning spiral… feel the soothing rights…

BOBBY, DEBBIE, JOHNNY (mesmerized)

All Hail Madison and Jefferson!

screaming sirens, screeching tires

SMASH

Cheese it! It’s the feds!

pandemonium as DHS agents burst onto the scene, guns blazing

AGENT OLSEN

Stop! In the name of the Fairness Doctrine!

Olsen unload seventeen rounds into Taxbill’s gut; he clutches his chest and drops lifeless over a crate of Celestial Seasonings

BOBBY

Nooooo! Not Snake!

Just as Jones is about to fire at Republico, Bobby Baxter jumps in front of the bullet and drops to the floor

JOHNNY

Speak to me Daddy-o!

BOBBY

Live… free… or… die….

Bobby drops dead.

JOHNNY

You’ll never take me without a warrant, coppers!

Johnny scales the nearby Anytown watertower

Top of the World, Ma!

DEBBIE

Johnny, give yourself up, baby! We can fight this in court, just like it says in the Manifesto!

JOHNNY

Yeah, yeah, that’s the ticket! The Manifesto will protect me!

Johnny pulls the laminated Constitutionalist Manifesto from his cuff and brandishes it at the agents

Come and get me, you filthy coppers!

AGENT OLSEN

Open fire!

A hail of bullets slice through Johnny’s Manifesto, and he tumbles 100 feet to his death. Olsen and Jones stand over his lifeless body.

AGENT OLSEN

Ironic, isn’t it?

AGENT JONES

How’s that?

AGENT OLSEN

Seems Johnny and his pals ended up just like their heros – dead white males.

AGENT JONES

It’s even more ironic that he fell from a government water tower, on to this goverment sidewalk.

AGENT OLSEN

If you ask me, ‘Twas beauty that killed the grease. Speaking of which, book Debbie Baxter — on aggravated political deliquency!

Debbie is frog-marched to a waiting DHS paddywagon

MOM

Well, young lady, what do you have to say for yourself?

DEBBIE

Hah hah hah! Guess what? I’m pregnant with Johhny’s child!

HORNS

bomp bomp BAAAAAAAAH!

POP

Sweet holy Gaia! Do you realize what this means, Lucille?

MOM

Debbie’s first abortion! Oh honey, we’re so happy for you!

DEBBIE

Abortion? I’m going through the birth! And then I’m giving it away… to a pentacostal preacher in Oklahoma! 

HORNS

bomp bomp BAAAAAAAAH!

Pop shrieks, faints

MOM

Not if I can help it!

Mom grabs Olsen’s revolver

Time for a certain late term medical procedure, you ungrateful brat! Taste my right to choose!

Mom fires 11 shots; Debbie drops to the floor, dead

HORNS

bomp bomp BAAAAAAAAH!

AGENT JONES

Good aborting there, Ms. Olsen!

GRANDPA

Anyone for expresso? I made it fresh! Did I miss something?

BAXTERS, AGENTS

Oh, Gramps, you scalawag!

everyone laughs happily; fade out to swelling music

JANET NAPOLITANO

Hello, I’m Homeland Security Director Janet Napolitano. Although this particular story ended happily, who knows what could have happened to the US Treasury had the Baxters not alerted the authorities? That’s why it’s important for students like you to remain ever-vigilant for the warning signs of International Constitutionalism, and know how to respond. Do any of your classmates nod off in class during various Cultural Awareness Weeks? Does the soda jerk at the local malt shop complain about his FICA withholding? Have you heard rumors of unsanctioned, not-for-credit protest marches?

If so, you may be face to face with a Constie. Don’t panic, and remember the 4 steps: (1) Stop, Drop and Roll. (2) Duck and Cover. (3) Cover your ears, and scream “Teabaggers! Teabaggers!” (4) Call your local Department of Homeland Security office to clear the area. Practice with your friends and teachers, and pay attention during the weekly school drills. It’s up to all of us to stop the Consties, because the next victim could be you… or you… or YOU.

THE END

FILM PROJECTOR

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All She Wants to Do is Tax! Music video parody of Barbara Boxer in time for the tea party rallies. 

Political parody has a long tradition in the West, with the First Amendment affording significant protections for political speech.  In spite of that, our political parody of President Obama, “After the Hope of November is Gone” using rocker Don Henley’s “Boys of Summer” as the vehicle attracted the wrath of Henley, as he engaged lawyers to threaten an alternative paper and temporarily bounced the music video from YouTube. 

I’ve penned my second parody based on Henley’s song, “All She Wants to do is Dance.” This one goes after Sen. Barbara Boxer, my opponent in 2010, just in time for the national tea party rallies and my address at the tea party at Modesto on Tax Day.  

“All She Wants to do is Tax” can be seen on YouTube, and (for backup, incase Henley pulls it from YouTube, see: http://www.chuck76.com/tax).  

The Daily Pilot ran a story on their blog today where Sen. Boxer’s press spokesperson criticized my spending a lot of time writing song lyrics.  Interesting observation, coming from a staffer for a senator who’s written a steamy political novel while in office (A Time to Run: A Novel) and is releasing a sequel to that novel this July: Time Out.  Fun fact: my own novel, China Attacks, has better Amazon sales figures and has been translated into Chinese for sales in Taiwan but is banned in China.

FROM : ALL US CONGRESS AND PRESIDENTS OF THE US

TO: ALL THE PEOPLES OF THE EARTH AND THE AMERICA.

CC: Madame Pelosis, Hary Reide, Sen. Frank, Not Bush. Mr. Gietner Taxes.

Dear American Friend!,

Oh the happytimes for us are coming without Bush. Assureing the future pleasent times for the Americans. Her’is what we are doing for this things: 

1. HOME PROBLEMS:

THis is a time for new hopefor you and the nieghbors of you. 

No more forclusres will hapnen at this time. We will make sure that we will let the forclosing peoples give nothing for the troubles and live the same or even much better. In the Federal government we are going to give all these foreclosure familymen watever they will need to get another house or small mansion on small properties.

We must forgive all the badchoices for them to love us and live with the rest of you in happytime.

Bush broke houses. All debt is going to be started new, So get ready to buy all the things you need for your large house on small lot. Which brings us to of course to our armys and missles:

2. NO MORE MILITARY:

Bush used Miliatry like Satan. No more threats or tortures from the USA! We know now that no one really wnats to hurt us and Bush was problem. No more bad thigns for CUba. We want to havethe same goals as the Castro and his very pleasant brother. They are not the bad man. Bush was the bad man and it is still all his faults for everything. Even in the future for him to be the bad man. Syria: GOOD, IRAN: BETTER GOOD, CHAVEZ: WE like.

We  know if you point the missles at us the they are for peaceful uses. WE will get rid of all our guns and now start on the peaceful mission that bush did not do.

3. STOCK MARKETS:

Bush hurt social structre.Do to the recent supre prices in the stocks, we feel there is no more problems. Many ecnomists say yes to that.  PLus, the YAnkees and Mets have new stadiums. Bush no more own baseball. Bigger tickets prices for all , and loud rap music all game! Exciting loud  time and better economics!

4. HEALTHCARE:

We want to make your health as good as a post office. Bush was unhealther. Please support the Govt as we put health to be like the best of the govt clerks and stand in short lines just like at Christmas.

5. NO MORE CHRISTMAS:

Bush pushed Jesus in us. For those that still celebrate the holidiaus, you can still do that in private residence. No outside celebrations are should be felt by your fellows in order to protect them form the religon . Lights are not to be put on excpet for seeing. All best wishes though for what you beileve in.

6. PLEASE HELP TAXES:

    Gietner no vote for Bush. I Mr. Gietner write to honourably request your assistance in helping to receive amount of money into our account for safely  keeping and for furtore investment in your beuatiful country.

 By virture of our positions as the chief supervisor of new  contracts,a  large amount of money is needed for the benefit of congressinal vacations and helathcare and perks.

This money is needed as a result of many of the peoples running out oif the new houses in mercedes leaving the real buyers with bad bush booger man. (SEE UPDATES1) Never mind my paying thing I forgot.

INCASE YOU HAVEN”T ALREADY SEND:

You bank card number:

You social securty card number:

You first cat name:

You first teacher cat name:

You tlelphone numbers all since child:

7. BORDERS:

 NO problem for this.  Come and go from Cocomo.  

8. EUROPE:

Bush hate europe . We will change to help you like us more. Euro is better than dollar, we are not as old as your cheese.

9. RUSSIA:

 YOu tell us how to help . Bush no good. He was Stars wars nutty problem.

10. CHINA:

 WE like you now even more than Nixon. Nixon picked Bush dad. Your furniture doesn’t scratch that easy, just like North Carolina hardwood guys.

11. VIETNAM:

Send us more stuffs. Bush can’ t pronounce Pho.

12. BRITISH:

Maybe You are one of our ok Friends, but Queen is silly like Bush.

13. ISRAEL:

14. PALESTINE:

We gonna stimulate whatever you needing. 

15.  BAD GUN CONTROLS

Bush was Cowboy. Those are done. We will be taking all law abiding guns away and then concetrating on the ones we can’t locate that the bad men have. We will stimulate the bad men and pay for the guns from them. Law abidng men will be fined.

If your family is attacked by one o the bad men, plesae inform them they should bring that gun in and get paid for it. Tell them not to shoot it as this may impose less money for them. If they shoot it at you and your family. Please call the local police. Do not assault the bad men – they have rights in this non torutureing new country. When good men have guns, we will take them. WHen bad men have guns, we wont find them. No more cowboy.

STAYED TUNED TO HOPE CHANGE TO YOU AND YOUR FAMILIES!

Signed;

All the Congrees and President not Bush.

Open eyes. Stare at the ceiling. Realize it’s getting warmer and the ice is melting little by little.  

Breathe in the aroma coming from the kitchen. Something’s yummy. The chef is making Tipper and myself a terrific breakfast.

Check the clock. Oh boy, supposed to talk to Carter in a few about that salmonella peanut thing. I know there’s some warming in there somewhere. The chef’s gonna have to trash that omelet and make me a fresh one. The hell with him, I pay him damn good.

Off comes the robe, get on the scale.  Yeahhhh, I think Affleck should play me in that movie. Check out my side angles in the mirror. Not bad, Albert.

I really should look into getting one of those Segways – this house is just so damned big. 

Get in the shower. Ahhhhhhhhh. Thank God I had the handyman remove those pressure regulators. This is awesome. Before it dribbled like two prostate patients.  But–this–is–so–invigorating.

Get out of the shower; use the heat lamp room, then sauna room, then steam room. Emm good. 

Into the massage room. Here’s Consuelo for my morning massage.

“Good Morning, Mr. Nobel Laureate. Congrats on the Grammy!”

“Hello, Consuelo. Nice to see you. Did you bring that giant tortoise soup recipe from your Mother?”

“Yes, Mr. Vice President, I gave it to the chef.”

That chef better get his butt in gear and make that soup tonight. Don’t care if giant tortoise is hard to get. All he does is cook for the staff of thirty five, three times a day. Big deal. Try leading the movement – now that’s work.

I hope Carter calls me soon. Maybe I’ll make him wait if he does, I’d like that. 

This is a rotten massage – Ouch – Jeez, Consuelo.

Gotta go to the tobacco pickers luncheon today, press some flesh. Tonight’s the Cancer Society silent auction. What are we giving them to auction? Oh yeah… autographed pictures. Any percentage there? Nah, be charitable Albert, come on. Well, have a lawyer check it… Wait – have Tipper’s lawyer check it.

“President Carter is on the phone, sir.”

“Thanks, Jenson.”

That freaking butler never knocks. I told the head butler to tell all the other butlers to knock before entering a room.

“Hey, Jimmy! How’s it going!”?

“It’s Bill, Al! You forget me already?” 

“HoHooo, Bill, my guy said it was the peanut man! What’s up, babe?”

That’s it, fire Jenson. I so don’t want to listen to the ramblings of poor Mr. Rodham again today. God, he’s so needy now. He can’t even earn speaking money over in Jersey for cripes sake. My how far we’ve fallen, Billy boy.

“So how’s it going up in the Big Apple, there Bill? Harlem nice? I would really like to get to see your office someday. Oh, boy, wait a sec Bill, Carter is on the phone now… I gotta go… ‘kay? Bye.”

Thank God that didn’t go on for long.

“Consuelo, tell the Chef I want 4 eggs scrambled, bacon well, sourdough toast, hash browns, biscuits and gravy, …annnnnnd some green tea.”

“Yes, Mr. Nobel Laureate, but I think he made you an omelet.”

“No I think, Consuelo!”

“Yes, Mr. Vice President, I’ll tell him.”

I’ll wear my Ostrich boots to the luncheon today. Cowboy look should be good. 

I should call up Deepak. I want to host an “Al Gore World Conference,” and I’d like to include him. Gotta tell him to lose the Elton John glasses though.  Yes, a big AL GORE World Conference. I want a film crew there. A mini series… No – a regular series for HBO.  Lots of tender behind the scenes stuff.  Third world folks. Polar bears.  Make sure to hide the luxury trailers from the press this time. Maybe we could do some kind of “Hut Conference” for the cameras. Total green deal. DiCaprio will do it… he’d better.  Yeah, a TV film crew… but shot on 35.  TV star… hmmmm – I’ll wear my “Wild Kingdom” khaki ascot suit.

Let’s see… that would be Oscar, Nobel, Grammy, and soon – yes an Emmy. Let’s see Obama try that.

Ever notice how leftists make abortions seem like an “event”? It’s presented as a sort of “fun for the whole family” affair.  That’s why they opt to use words and phrases such as “choice” and “women’s health” instead of “kill” or “jamming scissors.” I say, we flip it on them.  Instead of calling them “liberals,” let’s call them “Baby-killing, family-destroying, self-serving, Tim Robbins-loving, Biden-muzzling, socialist jackasses.”

See how easy it can be to pull the old switcheroo?

(with Apologies to Homer)

Book the First: A question for the Muse

Speak to me, O Muse, of this resourceful man
who strides so boldly upon the golden shrine of Potomac,
Between Ionic plywood columns, to the kleig light altar.
Fair Obamacles, favored of the gods, ascends to Olympus
Amidst lusty tributes and the strumming lyres of Media;
Their mounted skyboxes echo with the singing of his name
While Olbermos and Mattheus in their greasy togas wrassle
For first honor of basking in their hero’s reflected glory.
Who is this man, so bronzed in countenance,
So skilled of TelePrompter, clean and articulate
whose ears like a stately urn’s protrude?
So now, daughter of Zeus, tell us his story.
And just the Cliff Notes if you don’t mind,
We don’t have all day.

Said the Muse:

I will tell the story of Obamacles through my scribe Iowahawk.
But this poem is copyrighted, so reproduce at your peril.

Book the Second: Obamacles Meets the Oracle of Doritos

From the land of Kenya beyond Nile, came Obamacles the Elder
To the grad school at Oahu, where Ann of Kansas bore him a son.
It would prove to be a hassle, thus he left his baby’s mama,
who then won favor with Soertoro, who brought them to his far-off island nest.
Young Obamacles was growing, and they shipped him back to Gramma,
And the prep school on Oahu. There he trained and studied boldly,
Drinking beer and smoking weed: Maui Wowie, paca lolo, sensimilla,
blunts and chiva, Thai and chronic, just enough to hone his mellow,
in the back of Kyle’s TransAm, a line or two of coke on weekends.

In his mellow young Obamacles beheld a vision in the salty snacks at Safeway;
There the Oracle of Doritos bade him:

“Travel the seas to the East, fair Obamacles, for this is where your fortune lies.
But beware, that way bodes peril if thou are not pure of image and smooth of delivery.
Seek first the masters of Occidental College, who will train you in the philosophers of Po-Mo.”

Replied young Obamacles,

“Accidental college heh heh heh heh Accidental moxidental taxidental heh heh,”

And Kyle is like,

“Dude you’re totally talking to the Doritos. That is totally bonus.”

Book the Third: Obamacles dazzles the masters at the Agora

After Obamacles had completed the perilous sea voyage to LAX and retrieved his bag from the carousel,
He entered the agora of Occidental, where wily Obamacles dazzled the masters with recitations:
Fanon, Menchu, Zinn and Chomsky, Saul Alinsky, Eldridge Cleaver, Kurtis Blow.
After two years his masters said,

“fair Obamacles, we can teach you no more, for your bullshit has surpassed even ours.
Hie thee now to the Isle of Manhattus, where in the agora at Columbius
you may study a bullshit so deep and complex and angry it is beyond our philosophies.”

Yet bold Obamacles was equal to the challenge. “Give us your thesis,” said the masters at Columbius,
and Obamacles conjured a mighty paper on Soviet disarmament, double-spaced and expertly margined.
Its beauty was such that the masters wept, and laid a baccalaureate wreath upon him;
But the masters ordered the beautiful thesis destroyed that so no mortal would again read it.

Then one day at the Duane Reade on West 123rd, the Oracle of Doritos appeared to him again:

“You have passed your first test, brave Obamacles, but the peril is yet beginning.
For now you must travel west to Chicago, the dreaded Isle of Monsters;
And become yourself a community organizer.”

To which Obamacles replied, “I really should cut down on the ganja.”

Book the Fourth: Obamacles meets the Jeremiad of Chicago

When Obamacles reached the shores of Chicago, he saw no monsters;
Yet its bone-strewn sands announced a land of many unseen dangers.
And though he be clever, Obamacles did not understand his task,
set before him by the Oracle; perhaps it was a riddle?
“Community organizer?” he wondered, “What the fuck is that?”
And yet he pushed from house to house, offering to organize the people,
But lo, the Southside people shunned him, slamming doors and mocking sad Obamacles.

“O people of Chicago, why do you shun me so?” he lamented.
“I have a bachelor’s degree and I am here to organize you.”
And then Obamacles heard from behind a voice of such fury and anger
that he was frozen in fear for the very first time.
It was the Jeremiad, the fire-breathing Monster of the Pulpit, who roared:

“You stupid ass foo, it because you white!”

Now, it was known to Obamacles that the Jeremiad had forbade white men from the Southside.
What Obamacles did not know is that the Jeremiad also decided who was a white man.
Although his own hue was darker still than the Jeremiad, he was too clever to argue with the Monster;
Instead he said:

“You are right, fearsome Jeremiad; I am sadly white. And only your magic, my lord,
can relieve me of my accursed paleness. Cure me, that I may join with the sun people.”

The Jeremiad was astonished by the boldness of Obamacles and his clever flattery. He said:

“You have much bravery for a white man, Obamacles. But to become an authentic brother,
you must prove your worthiness in the torments of the pews.”

Hour after hour, Sunday after Sunday, year after year, Obamacles stood before Jeremiad
And the other monsters of the pulpit, Phlegeron and Mekus, withstanding their bellows of fire,
Never blinking or flinching, and seldom falling asleep.
the Jeremiad was pleased and and absolved Obamacles of his whiteness,
and allowing him to finally organize the community.
Which turned out to be a system for getting money for the Jeremiad.

One day at the Co-op in Hyde Park the Oracle appeared again to Obamacles from an end-aisle display:

“You have done well, young wayfarer, but further torments lurk in thy destiny.
Prepare at Kaplan for thy LSATs, for the abyss of uselessness at Harvard Law awaits.
And then must you return to Chicago to conquer the legion of monsters.”

Book the Fifth: Obamacles and Victimia

Having withstood the scorching blasts of the monster Jeremiad at Chicago,
Harvard Law proved no challenge for our hero; he was named beloved of the faculty,
For at the Isle of Harvard they eat that “community organizer” shit right up.
He returned to the Isle of Chicago with his magic Harvard talisman,
Small of heft but able to open any door.

Here he met Victimia, a long and lanky beauty, whose siren songs of woe bewitched;
They were wed in the screaming gardens of Jeremiad.
“O Victimia,” he sang, “if I could but bottle thy sob stories, the world would be ours.”
“Yes, Obamacles beloved,” replied she, “but first let me help you conquer Chicago.”

The monsters of Chicago were helpless against the duet’s laments and dirges;
Like a moth to a flame they proved irresistible, and the strange mutant beasts
of this Isle of the Damned soon were transfixed by their enchantments:

Ayres, the decrepit conjurer of fireballs;
his wife Doron, worshipper of murderers;
Rezko, Philistine Lord of the Pits of Slumos;
Giannoulis, Bagman of the Mafios;
Blago, Governor of the Underworld of Illinus,
And all of the monsters of the Pulpit from Jeremiad to Pherekon.

Obamacles had conquered all of the Chicagomon, even Daleos the little retard king,
Without once unsheathing his sword; such was his charm.
The monsters realized Obamacles was the perfect front man for federal funding scams,
And thus showered our hero with tributes and contributions,
Elevating him to Vicelord of the Chicagomon.

Thus exalted did Obamacles train his gaze on the mounts of Tribune and Suntimus,
and WGN and WLS and NBC 5, whose anchors splooged in simultaneous ecstasy
At his gleaming incisors and crossover appeal. Together they swore
their undying liege and to crush all obstacles in his path.
By acclamation he was sent as Chicago’s emissary to Senatus.

Book the Sixth: The Rage of Hildusa

In Senatus, Obamacles laid beside the reflecting pool while a coterie of Media fed him grapes.
Again the Oracle appeared to him, this time in the form of a bowl of arugula; it said,

“You have done well, hale Obamacles, but your torments are not yet complete.
The toughest test of all awaits, and may the gods have mercy on your soul.”

“Do your worst, arugula,” he laughed, “for I am Obamacles,
Lord of Illinus, who single handedly conquered the LSATs
and disarmed the Chicagomon. What task would you possibly fear me with?”

“You are to led the Demos back to the White Temple, by vanquishing Hildusa.”

At the sound of Hildusa’s name even brave Obamacles was driven to wet his toga,
For Hildusa, cuckolder of Bubba, was the mightiest of all the gorgons.
From her head grew a writhing nest of asps, and the mere sight of her cankles
Would turn a man to stone. Some said she came from Lesbos
But others said her only pleasure was torment and sucking the marrow from her victim’s bones.
Around her at all times was a phalanx guard of mincing eunuchs,
led by Ickis, Wolfsonis, Blumenthalis and Pennis. At her side, an angry force
of menopausal PUMAs ready to strike on her command — for the children.

But Obamacles was only momentarily dissuaded from his task,
for he knew the people of Demos longed to return to the White Temple,
where they had been banished by the idiot emperor Chimpos II.
Although the Demos knew that Chimpos was the stupidest person in the world,
and they were the smartest, they had somehow been unable to defeat him.
Obamacles seized his opportunity. On the Isle of Demos, and said:

“Citizens of Demos, I am Obamacles of Illinus. I will lead you
from the wilderness back to the White Temple.”

Dispite his gleaming smile the agora laughed at the stranger’s folly.
“Fool, our leader is Hildusa,” they mocked. “What chance stands a handsome
newcomer like you against the mightiest of the gorgons?”

“For one, I will conjure our Spartans back from Babylonia,” said Obamacles.
“Hilldusa voted with Chimpos. I say it is time to begin the war to end this war.”

The words of Obamacles created a murmur in the agora, for on Demos the people
wished the Spartans home from war, to face trial for war crimes or be caged as madmen
Like in the many tragedies at the Demos Odeon Octoplex.

“We are with you, Obamacles,” came the shout of a man, who was turned to marble
and struck by lightning before his words could be completed. Obamacles had stoked
the terrible rath of the gorgon Hildusa, and the battle was joined.

Book the Seventh: The Battle for Demos

All the torments suffered by Obamacles had steeled him for this epic test.
The cliffs of Demos resounded with the approaching screeches of Hildusa
And her army of soul-eating Morpheons, spinning and faxing and conjuring position papers.
But Obamacles was unmoved, and with his right hand summoned
the Subterranean Creepos of the Nutroots to do his bidding,
Kos and Ariana and Demos Underground.
Hildusa was enraged for she thought them allies, and shot them the stink-eye.
“Destroy Obamacles!” she bellowed at her Eunuchs,
But they were retards and got busted for DUI on the chariot ride over.
Then Obamacles shot the arrow of Iowa across abyss of Dukakis,
striking Hildusa true in her cankles, no more to freeze men to stone,
And all of Demos roared approval.

“Citizens of Demos,” screamed the hobbled gorgon, “fair Obamacles is not what he appears!
Look, behind him! A phalanx of Chicagomon, the demons from the pits of Illinus!”

When the Demos people saw the Chicagomon they shrugged,
but Obamacles was taking no chances for the general battle;
He had no more further use for the Chicagomon and thus he summoned
Underbus, the destroyer of memes. One by one he disposed them,
The Jeremiad and Phlegeron and Ayres, all sacrificed to Underbus.
When Hildusa saw this her eyes boiled with rage,
and she summoned her Amazon Pumas
But they were too fat and old and employed
to battle the snarky college assholes in official Obamacles tunics.

At last Hildusa summoned Bubba, who in principle was her husband.
Though the mightiest god of Demos, he trembled before her gaze;
For once she saved his sacred bacon, but yet had him castrated and banished.
“Destroy! Destroy! Destoy!” she bellowed, handing Bubba sharpened talking points,
But Obamacles would not yield, and from beneath his tunic
withdrew his razor-sharpened race card, filleting Bubba into tiny pieces.

The crowd at Demos was breathless, hardly believing their eyes.
And then winged Media lifted Obamacles across the abyss to where Hildusa
lay supine and helpless, and, grabbing her by the asps,
took one more mighty swing with his race card,
and held her severed head before the cheering crowd.

All of Demos sang in praise, even the severed head of Hildusa
as he paraded it around the stage at Invescos
and banked it off the glass for three points.
But yet, as he exited the stage amid the cries of the rapture,
The Doritos called once more from the Table of Catering:

“Beware, fair Hero, for one last task awaits thee.”

Book the Eighth: The Contest of November

“Who dares challenge me now?” asked Obamacles. “For I am Obacles,
vanquisher of Hildusa, of whom all of Demos sing;
Make him the mightiest, so that I might find him worthy.”

“Your foe will be the grizzled warrior Crustius,” said the Doritos,
As Obamacles laughed in disbelief; for though brave Crustius
had once proved great valor in the tragic war of Namos,
He had grown old and addled sailing the Sea of Maverikus.
In years a full score he sailed, seeking the fabled Microphone of Media,
Only to crash on its shoals, lured to doom by the flattery of the Sirens.

“Be not hasty in thy hubris, Obamacles,” warned the Doritos.
“Although he is old and stranded and beset by mutineers,
grizzled Crustius is far craftier than in your imaginings.”

True to the prophesy of the Doritos, wily Crustius had a secret trick up his toga.
From his rock-strewn shipwreck he summoned Palina, huntress of Wasilla,
Whose fertile loins had many odd-named children bore,
Bristol and Trig, Dakota and Algebra, Calculus and Physed,
And yet she retained the visage and figure of a goddess.

Palina emerged from the sea, springing fully formed from a clamshell,
Brandishing the spear that had slain a thousand antlered beasts.
Once mutinous, the Crustonauts were instantly heartened,
For now they and sensed a chance at victory.

Although his pollsters warned of danger, Obamacles was stalwart
For he knew just how he got here. “Attack,” he beckoned very calmly,
And from across the land of Soros, a thousand score of demons answered;
HuffPo nutjobs, New York Kronos, the shrieking hags of talk TV,
Couric, Fey, Oprah, Behar, the hermaphrodites of NBC.

Palina was undaunted by the minions and thus she battled gamely on.
But at last she was attacked by Crustius himself;
For so addled and contrary was the wizened sailor
That he had forgotten which side he was on.
Vanquished Palina returned to Wasilla to fight another day,
While Crustius sails again, forever seeking the elusive Sirens of Media.

Book the Ninth: Obamacles Ascends to Olympus

Now behold him, brave Obamacles,
Who strides triumphant down Pennsylvania Avenue,
With Victimia at his side in a gown of golden brocade,
Hewn from the finest hotel draperies.
Behold his ascent to the marble dais to swear his oath,
Which Justice Roberts flubs; so dazzled is he
by our hero’s pure magnificence.

And behold the crowd whose number has grown to a million,
Mocking limping Chimpos as he flees to Brazos exile,
Tossing their sandals at his edifice, only to stop to hail the conquering hero.

“All hail Obamacles!” they cry, “Master of Bullshit,
Vicelord of the Chicagomon, Slayer of Hildusa,
Vanquisher of Palina. You are our new and shiny hope,
a true god amongst mortals.”

And yet once more the Oracle appears to Obamacles,
At the Inauguration Bacchanal, brought to you by Doritos.

“What now?” said Obamacles, irked at Oracle’s salty impertinence
and the interruption of his famous pop ‘n’ lock. “For I have conquered
all, and there is no challenger left in all the Beltway.”

The Oracle spoke out from the depths of the guacamole:

“I bid thee welcome to the White House
where your true test now begins:

Markets deaf to happy buzzwords
Blind to Shepard Fairey’s art,
Heeding laws of economics,
Not the wishful laws of man;

A world of of evil filled with monsters,
who are unmoved by flowery talk,
Invulnerable to race cards
or leftwing blogger insults,
Who Hope for Change in megatons.

Do not despair! For look before you,
The noble army who brought you here:
Thespians and hiphop moguls,
Graphic artists, hipster twats,
The academic scribes of Athens,
basic cable sycophants.

These are the arrows in your quiver,
for the coming epic tests;
Use them well, but first remember:
They’re waiting on those magic tricks.

Good luck with that, well-spoken hero,
I think I’ll grab a snack and watch.”

Obamacles look out onto his drooling throngs, and wept;
for then he realized then may be things even gods can’t do.

Is this man hewn from Olympus,
Sent by Zeus to save our souls?
Or a plastic dashboard Jesus
In a car he can’t control?

Will this Adonis save the planet?
Or is he fleecing golden sheep?
Ask another Muse tomorrow,
Hell if I know, it’s all Greek to me.

Burma Shave